


Our Love Is God

by tieressian



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa 3: The End of 希望ヶ峰学園 | The End of Kibougamine Gakuen | End of Hope's Peak High School, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Angst, Assisted Suicide, Blood and Gore, Brainwashing, Death, Despair Era (Dangan Ronpa), Eventual Romance, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Killing Game (Dangan Ronpa), Komaeda Nagito Being Komaeda Nagito, Manipulation, Obsession, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Possessive Behavior, Pre-Despair (Dangan Ronpa), Reader Has An Ultimate Talent (Dangan Ronpa), Self-Harm, Sick Komaeda Nagito, Smut, Suicide, Unhealthy Relationships, Yandere, cancel reader 2020, everything changed when junko attacked, plot twist they’re both yandere, proposal with cutting off hands, reader isn’t a good person, reader wears makeup, reader’s playing 4d chess nagito’s playing go fish, thats their dynamic, toxicity go brrr, yes it’s as disturbing as the tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:55:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27152800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tieressian/pseuds/tieressian
Summary: What starts off as a charity case evolves into something more. Something dark, twisted, obsessive.Something neither of you can quit.
Relationships: Komaeda Nagito/Reader
Comments: 31
Kudos: 200





	1. and i am the idiot (with the painted face)

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time I’ve written for Danganronpa. So I decided to jump the ship and write a fic centered around the most difficult character to write! Sorry if I completely failed lmao. Please mind the tags, and I’ll put content warnings at the beginning of every chapter.
> 
> This isn’t a fluffy happy story. Sorry y’all.
> 
> Content warning: manipulation, bombs, gore, death, blood, brainwashing

You’re proud of your talent.

Super High School Level Companion, that’s you. A title that barely sums up the effort it took to attain it. Because really, it’s not all sunshine and rainbows. Romps in the park and a chipper, happy-go-lucky attitude that never wanes.

To put it simply, it’s all psychology. Analyzing and considering every action and reaction like a soldier observing a battlefield. You gotta keep an eye out for every little detail. Because really, all a good first impression counts on is body language and mimicry. Molding yourself to fit the edges like puzzle pieces clicking together. White liner on the undereye and a dusting of pink for innocence. Heavy bronzer and packed on lids for a more mature, confident look. And dark, winged eyeliner that cuts like daggers for intimidation.

Because to you, there’s nothing more fascinating than the flexibility of human nature. How easily one can mold and shape another to their own whims. A puppet dangling from their fingertips with a few whispered words and a bat of their eyelashes. It’s a terrifying thought, but so deliciously intriguing that you can’t help but entertain it every once in a while. The possibility of such wide scale manipulation making you shudder in both disgust and disturbing glee.

But that’s a darker fantasy you only pull out at four o’clock in the morning. Not when you’re running around with your new, rather eccentric homeroom teacher searching for your classmates. Classmates that you’ve practically never met, considering how they barely even attend lessons. 

But the ever-diligent Miss.Yukizome works her talents. And soon enough, everyone’s all gathered together for the very first time. Your victorious teacher standing at the front of the classroom as she delivers her scathing, yet somewhat inspirational speech.

Though it would be nice if you could actually see her…

With an indignant huff, you angle your head and peer out into the aisle. Peeking around the wall of soda cans on your neighbors desk as you watch the board. The aluminum reflecting in the harsh fluorescent lights and shining right into your eyes. You’d been one of the only ones to help your classmate carry the cans back from the vending machine. Stacking them up in the perfect pyramid that now plagues you so. A looming tower seconds away from falling over and crushing you beneath its carbonated deliciousness.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the offending classmate turns around and meets your eye, “how selfish of me to get in your way!” He smiles as if you’re sharing some sort of inside joke. Maintaining eye contact for a discomfitingly long while as he turns his head and shifts aside. Far too accommodating as he sits on the edge of his chair and begins the long process of reorganizing his fortress of sodas.

“No, that’s alright you don’t—” you object, voice hushed as your eyes flick towards Miss. Yukizome at the front of the class, “you didn’t do anything wrong, it’s fine.” He doesn’t even falter, though you didn’t exactly expect him to.

Komaeda Nagito, Super High School Level Lucky Student. Self loathing bundled up in a cocoon of loose fitting suits and a mop of fluffy white hair. Skin so pale it’s almost translucent, with spidery blue veins that stand out from the flushed pink of his knuckles. He’s all soft edges. Fading into the background like a bleached flag flapping in the wind. Happy to blend into the crowd, to be the canvas for everyone else to stand out on. Yet too distinctly _other_ for him to completely disappear into the backdrop.

You’ve heard the rumors, the whispers that flit about in his wake. That he’s cursed, manic. That everyone around him winds up dead, or worse (Souda’s got the bandages to prove it). But surely, that can’t be true. How on earth can the Ultimate Lucky Student be plagued with such misfortune?

Besides, it’s not like anyone’s even given him half a chance. There’s a reason you were the only one willing to help carry his cans. A reason why nobody bats an eye when his self deprecation goes too far. You’re the Ultimate Companion, damnit! If anyone can get through to him, it’s you!

And with a final clink of metal against metal, he finishes stacking the cans on the opposite end of the desk. Clearing the view of the chalkboard as he sidles to the right to make more room for you to see. But in an unforeseen twist of misfortune, his hand sweeps over the desktop and sends the tower of cans crashing down. The buzz of the classroom fading into silence as the cans roll across the tile. A few bursting open and spewing fizzy drink all over Souda and only Souda.

“Figures,” Komaeda sighs, the SHSL Mechanic sputtering and cursing as no one makes a move to clean up, “of course my luck would run out in the most unremarkable way.”

Without missing a beat, you jump up from your chair and rush to pick up the cans. Gathering them in your arms and carefully lining them back up on Komaeda’s desk. No one else moves to help (besides Miss. Yukizome and her sudden materialization of paper towels). Meaning it’s just you and Komaeda scrambling to collect the mess. The judging eyes of your classmates burning into your back like an iron brand.

And like a scene from a cheesy teen movie, your fingers close around the last can at the exact same time. Fingers brushing as your eyes lock for a split second. Though in the very next moment, you both jerk your hands away. An apology on your lips as you smile meekly up at him.

But it seems he beats you to the chase.

“My apologies. You’ve already done so much to help a no one like me, and I had the gall to try and touch you!” he gives you a tight lipped smile. Grabbing the can and setting it besides the others as his eyes bore into yours. Deep and probing with a distant edge of madness that sets off something darkly pleasant in your gut.

“Don’t apologize,” you wave off his words with a smile, “it was nothing, you don’t need to speak of yourself like that.”

His smile doesn’t falter at your admonishment. Sliding back into his seat without another word as you both act like nothing had happened. Shaking off the curious glances of your classmates as you sit back down and rest your chin in your palm.

And if you find a can of Dr. Hopper on your desk after class, well…

Isn’t it just a coincidence how a bag of candies makes its way to Komaeda’s seat?

* * * *

Friendship comes slowly.

That is, if you can even call it friendship.

It’s a tentative sort of thing. Like flowers trying to take root in concrete. Stilted and awkward as you try and forge some sort of connection. It’s an impossible feat. Made even more so by Komaeda’s refusal to let you get too close. Fear masked by polite smiles and carefully crafted excuses. Avoidance glazed over with subtly harsh words directed solely towards himself.

But you persevere. And in the end, it’s Nanami that paves the way for the two of you. 

And Saionji too, you suppose. In a rather twisted, roundabout way.

It all circles back to that damned soup. And really, you should’ve known something was up from the very beginning. Saionji just had that signature ominous look on her face—lips curled in a smirk as she hides her mouth behind her palm. But you dismissed it. Lulled into security by a day spent gaming with the class. 

And now here you are. Doped up on aphrodisiac spiked stew as fire burns its way through your gut. Hunched over and shivering with your classmates in a similarly wrecked state.

“Oh hell,” you curse, panting heavily as your breath catches in your throat, “this is bad...this is real, real bad.” You jump with a start as a hand rests on your back. Turning your head and gasping as hazy, gray-green eyes lock onto yours.

“I’m sorry, I’m making everything worse by dirtying you with my touch. But I can’t…” Komaeda shifts closer as his fingers twist in the fabric of your uniform. Inhibitions gone under the influence of Hanamura’s drugged up cooking, “typical, someone as weak as me has no chance against an Ultimate’s superior concoction.” His skin is cold even as you’re so burningly hot. Tie loosened and collar unbuttoned as his cheeks flush a ruddy pink.

“You’re not…” you object. Choosing actions over words as you flop over and melt into his side, “you’re n-not weak. Everyone else...is in the same shape.”

His eyes sweep over the room at your words. A breathy, harsh chuckle falling from his lips as his hand shakes against your back. “So it seems. And yet…” he grips you tighter even as he fights against the motion. Eyes deep and endless like a bottomless pool. A flicker of clarity cutting through the dark before being whisked away by your hand against his chest. Breath rasping in his throat like sandpaper, he moves his hand to rest over yours. Fingers long and bony like iron rods wrapped in cotton. “I’m not...not strong enough to stay away.”

An opening. A soft grin and gentle tremor enough to squeeze through the cracks and break through.

“You don’t have to.”

* * * *

You’re not a bad person. Opportunistic, shrewd, and maybe a touch manipulative; but not a bad person.

And you truly _are_ saddened by Sato’s and Natsumi’s death. Though you may have... _exaggerated_ those emotions around both Koizumi and Kuzuryu. Exacerbating your grief whenever they’re near. Teary eyed and apologetic with Koizumi, stoic and understanding with Kuzuryu. 

You’re not a bad person. 

You’re just...accommodating.

And in an ironic twist of fate, the only person you’re even remotely honest around is Komaeda.

It’s just...easy, with him. No expectations to live up to, no moral standards to adhere by. Everything you do, everything you say, is immeasurably precious to him. Worshipped like scripture, like you’re something more than an overhyped BFF. And you know it’s unhealthy. Know you should stop it, stop him. 

But you can’t.

Your relationship shifted from avoidance to obsession like day turning to night. The boy fixating on you the moment he was given even a hint of affection. Like a duckling imprinting on the first smiling face it sees. For all his panicking over someone getting too close, he sure lets you in surprisingly quick. Starved for attention and willing to take it straight from your open hands. Trembling pupils and sallow cheeks that light up whenever you so much as glance at him. It’s adorable, pathetically so. A sentiment that rises again as you catch him staring at you from across the couch.

Because despite the whirlwind of the past few weeks, studying for the practical exams is another mundanity you must return to. Which, technically, is why Komaeda is in your dorm in the first place. You’re a highly coveted study buddy, a fact that Komaeda had raved about when you first gave him the invitation. _Oh this is wonderful! To think someone as great as you spared trash like me a thought when you could’ve chosen anyone else! I’m so lucky!_ But you know he doesn’t need help, and he knows you know. And he knows that you know that he knows you don’t need it, either.

“Komaeda,” you hum, glancing up from your textbook and catching his stare. Neither of you looking away as you absentmindedly turn the page, “what are you thinking about?”

His lips twist in an apologetic smile. He does that a lot, you realize. Smile. So much so that soft wrinkles are already carved into his face. Furrows and creases that span across his too-pale skin like crinkled paper. Skin drawn taut as his cheeks push up to his eyeline. Eerily cute, almost corpse-like in its frailty.

“Nothing important. Just the idiotic musings of a no one,” he sighs bemusedly. Tone light and airy as he curls further into the couch, trying to take up as little space as possible. _I don’t want to get in your way! You’ve been kind enough to invite me over, so kind. I’m already enough of a burden as is._

“Well, I’d like to hear these musings,” you encourage, noticing how he perks up at the promise of a listener. He’s so easy to please. Craves praise even as he shys away from it. Longs for someone to talk to even as he bites his tongue. A walking contradiction that you’re far too eager to pick apart.

He practically shakes with excitement at your permission. Words tumbling from his lips like a rider losing grip of the reins. “As grateful as I am for you inviting me over—and really! I couldn’t be happier! Wouldn’t you agree it’s best for the practical exams to be postponed? After all, with everyone’s mood being as it is, our classmates won’t be in top form by the time exams come around.” His fingers twitch as they dig into the fabric of the couch. Rocking back and forth as he’s caught in the throes of his impassioned speech, “Isn’t that awful? For the shining hope of the academy to be dulled by despair?! Just the thought of it makes me sick.”

You hum thoughtfully. Licking your thumb and turning the page as you glance up at him from beneath your lashes. Drawing out the tension as he waits anxiously for your response. Desperate for your approval like a puppy awaiting pats.

“You’re right, as per usual,” you compliment, not even giving him a chance to object, “Kuzuryu and Koizumi are still grieving, despite what the former says. And it’s certainly taking a toll on the rest of us.” You dog ear the page and set the book aside. Threading your fingers together as you rest your chin atop your hands. “Besides, I wouldn’t mind an extra week of studying.”

“I knew you’d agree,” he grins, smile fading as he continues almost contemptuously, “though I’ve already gone and bothered Miss. Yukizome. No luck there, how ironic.” He sighs, leaning back and staring up at the ceiling. “To think Hope's Peak is supposed to cultivate the Ultimates talents, but instead caters to the pitiless _reserve course._ ” His lips pull back in a sneer, “a mockery, a pale imitation of the talent this academy promises. Nobodies who think that with a little elbow grease and a fat paycheck, they can achieve what can only be gained by birthright.”

You sigh. The exhalation purposely loud so you know he can hear it.

“Komaeda.” 

He blinks. Startled out of his reverie and retreating back into himself with a practiced flinch. “I’m sorry, I got a little ahead of myself there. I know our opinions differ, but you just have to understand!” He inches closer without even realizing it. Fingers outstretched and quivering, nail beds a deep, sickly maroon. Chewed down to the quick in nervous excitement. “You see, there are two kinds of people in this world. Those who are born with worth, and everybody else.” You blink, and he’s closer. Hovering over you with a dangerously calm expression that is both terrifying and captivating. Like staring into the void and jumping right in. “No matter how hard a lowly human tries, they will never be the same as someone who was born worthy. People with talent don’t become talented. They’re just born with their abilities right from the start.”

Your tongue feels too big for your mouth. Throat clicking as you swallow and choke on your own spit. “You’re wrong,” you whisper, “talent can’t be simplified to just...genetic inheritance. It’s something you work for, strive for. Think of Nanami. Of Pekoyama and Owari and Mioda. You don’t pop out of the womb playing Super Nintendo. Come into the world knowing how to sword fight, parkour, play guitar. They’re skills. Skills fueled with a passion, a desire. _Hope._ ” His breath hitches. Lips curled and thin as he shakes like a leaf in the wind. Clutching at himself like he’s rotting from the inside out. Eyes wide and gleeful as he basks in your words as if silver is spun from your lips. “Hell, how do you think I got here? There's no one size fits all when it comes to companions. I can’t be the same friend I am with Kuzuryu to Tsumiki. Can’t get along with Tanaka like I do Souda. It’s psychology. Observational learning, social exchange, self-verification. I learned that from textbooks, not a collection of chromosomes.”

Silence. His hands falling limply to his side as he bears the weight of your words. Clothes wrinkled and fingertips flushed an angry red from his vice-like grip.

“Does that mean...everything is a lie?” He questions. Expression curiously blank even as hurt cuts through the mask. Tilting his head and regarding you in a new, strangely admiring light, “if so...you’re so much more talented than I had expected!” A grin splits his face like a ghoulish jack o’lantern, “even if me being here is just a part of your schemes, I’m happy to take part in—“

“It’s not!” You shout, taking his hands in yours as you try to get him to understand. Ignoring the clamminess of his skin and the shaking of his fingers as you run your thumb along his knuckles. “It’s not a lie, not with you.”

For once, he’s completely still. Quiet and frozen as he makes no move to pull away or draw close. Blinking once, twice, three times as disbelief, awe, and self-contempt flashes across his face in quick succession. Emotion shuttering away just as quick as it appears.

“I’m honored…” he says breathlessly. Clutching his hand to his chest with an awed, open-mouthed grin, “for you to even look at me, nothing more than dirt beneath your shoe...it’s a gift I can never repay.” He looks dazed, caught off guard. Swaying like a ship unmoored as his eyes flit across your face in order to memorize it. Spidery lashes that fan out over his cheeks in long, gaunt shadows. Skin pale and sunken like candle wax carved into a man. A surprisingly handsome man, now that you think about. “You deserve better.”

A grin, a flutter. Confidence in a soft smile and softer eyes. Bait on the hook and fish on the bait.

“You _are_ better.”

* * * *

You know not to ask about it.

After all, whatever Komaeda’s up to is simply none of your business. Nuts and bolts spilling from his pockets, his bag. Metal plates and screws overflowing and poking out like an open wound. You should tell someone. Should question exactly what he’s planning.

There’s a lot of ‘shoulds’ you’ve been ignoring lately.

Humming distractedly, you roll onto your back and hold your book just in front of your nose. Parsing through the worn pages as you kick back on Komaeda’s bed. The boy in question is just to your right. Sitting on the floor with various parts strewn all around him. Tongue caught between his teeth as he clicks something into place. 

Already bored of the chapter, you snap the book shut and toss it aside. Sprawling out on your stomach as you passively watch Komaeda work. It’s entrancing, the way his fingertips skate atop the metal plating. Gentle yet purposeful as they dip inside the chassis and tug at the wiring. Completely absorbed as his tongue darts out to wet his lower lip. A motion you can’t help but track.

“That’s not going to blow up in your face, right?” You ask, a tinge of nervousness invading your tone. Crossing your arms over the sheets and resting your chin atop them.

He laughs, though you’re not sure what he finds so funny, “if I haven’t failed too spectacularly, it should be more than safe.”

“Good,” you sigh in relief, “I don’t want you getting hurt for the sake of...this.”

“I promise you! It’s more than worth it!” He swears. Glancing up from the mangled contraption and sending you a wide grin, “with this, the Ultimates of Hope's Peak Academy will be able to shine as bright as intended!”

You give him a sad smile, “you’re an Ultimate too, y’know. You can’t run yourself into the ground for hope’s sake.”

His grin doesn’t falter. An emptiness to his expression that makes your stomach drop as if plummeting off a cliff. Only you don’t know when you’ll hit the bottom. “I’ll gladly sacrifice myself in the name of hope,” he says in full seriousness. Eyes a spiraling green and black that whirls away into madness, “I'll do anything to sow the seeds. Even if it means I’m not there to watch them grow.”

“Don’t say that!” You say sharply. Eyes narrowed as you scramble onto your knees and lean forward. Looming over him from your position amongst the wrinkled bed sheets, “don’t you have dreams? Ambitions for once you leave Hope's Peak? You can’t achieve them if you’re…”

“Dead?” He finishes nonchalantly. Eerily calm as if he’s made peace with the thought long ago, “well, nothing really matters then. Right?” His lips pull back in a sheepish smile. Apologizing as if he’d merely stepped on your foot. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to bother you with my moronic philosophizing. I guess I’ve just never seen the use of thinking past graduation. After all, with a talent as useless as mine, there’s not much for me to do out in the world.” You have a feeling there’s more he’s not telling you, but you push your suspicions aside for the moment.

“So?” You say simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the entire world, “dreams don’t have to be realistic, they don’t have to make sense. Me? I want to open a bakery. It’s so out of line for what people expect of the Ultimate Companion, it’s perfect.” You chuckle slightly to break the tension, “plus, I like sweets.”

A pause. An exhalation. An offer.

“And you know, if you still don’t know what to do…” you fold your hands in your lap. Strangely shy despite the adoring gaze that sweeps over you like sunlight over water, “you’re always free to become the co-owner of my future bakery.”

It's like you’ve just promised him the world. His body wracking with the slightest of shivers as he stares up at you in wonderment. Groveling at your feet like a worshipper praying at the altar. It’s a scary sort of devotion. But you love it nonetheless. Love _him_ , you realize. Love the quirks and oddities and the intelligence hidden behind wild eyes and windstorm hair. Layers of complexity you can’t even begin to unearth. Like digging into concrete with your bare hands. Bleeding and shaking with a wild smile spread on your face.

“What a selfless offer!” he says breathily, “that you’d even consider trash like me in your future...I might just cry!” He smiles up at you with a parted grin. Open and vulnerable like the book you’d just been paging through.

“Of course I’m gonna consider you, you’re my friend,” you say obviously, far too aware of how he reacts to the admission. Wide eyed and disbelieving as his fingers rise to his mouth. Neorotically picking at his lip as his breath rattles in his chest. “So you better make it to graduation, you hear me?”

His eyes go soft, lidded. Heart thumping in your chest as he blinks up at you and smiles softly, “I swear on my life, I will.”

* * * *

“Komaeda!”

A bomb. He had been making a _bomb._ Coming to your dorm and you to his with a goddamn _explosive_ in his pocket. Jesus Christ, you’d sat right next to the thing! You’d helped fucking _make_ it!

And now the exam hall’s in shambles, the test’s postponed...

And Komaeda’s suspended.

Indefinitely.

_“Komaeda!”_

Your heart jumps up your throat and sticks to the roof of your mouth. Breath hissing between your teeth as your feet slap against the pavement in a sporadic drumbeat. One two three one two three, arms pumping as you run as fast you can. Hand outstretched towards the retreating back of your only true friend.

And with one last shout of his name, he turns around. The two of you nearly colliding as you skid to a halt at the very last second. Chest heaving as you gather your bearings and fight back the sting in your eyes. There’s a cardboard box in his arms. The last of his classroom possessions spilling over the top as his arms strain from the weight. He’s not in his school uniform. Swallowed up instead by a green jacket that trails down to his knees. And while it definitely looks good on him, it’s a grim reminder of what’s to come.

“You’re really leaving?” You ask softly. Something twisted rising in your gut as you realize this may be the last time you see him for a while.

“I’m sorry,” he says almost cheerfully. Tone light even as his eyes look sad, “I’ve already gone back on my word, I’m such a disappointment.”

“Don’t...don’t talk like that!” You object, fists clenched at your sides as righteous anger replaces your despair, “you’ll come back soon, and then we can graduate together! Don’t give up hope yet!”

He meets your eye with a soft twist of his lips. Gentle and fond in a way that strikes warmth through your heart. “Of course not,” he promises, turning bashful as he drops his head in shame, “and I know it’s rude of me to assume...but...if you could try not to forget me…” he hunches in, clutching the crumpled box as if trying to hide behind it, “I know I’m easily forgettable, insignificant compared to the talents you’re surrounded by and...I’m sorry I know it’s a lot to ask—”

“Shut up,” you huff. Lunging forward and wrapping your arms around him in a tight hug. It’s an incredibly awkward embrace. Your body angled to the side as the box digs into your stomach. His whole body stiffening as he freezes in your hold. Afraid to even breathe as his hair tickles your cheek (why on earth is it so _soft?)_ “There’s no way I’m forgetting you. That’s stupid talk,” you send him a glare as he opens his mouth. Softening around the edges as tears prick the corner of your eyes, “I’m really gonna miss you.” 

And for once, he doesn’t object. Leaning into you ever so slightly as his eyes slowly flutter closed. Indulging himself for just a split second before ducking away in shame. Like the apple getting caught in Adam’s throat, bittersweet and tart. Banished from the gardens with nothing but each other.

“Me too.”

* * * *

They say distance makes the heart grow fonder.

You want to punch whoever coined that phrase straight in the face.

Distance sucks. Intermittent letters dwindling into nothing sucks. A year of practical radio silence _sucks._

But you still love Komaeda. And maybe that makes you an idiot. Because really, you should be more upset. Pissed off that he hasn’t so much as contacted you for months and months and months.

All that disappears once he walks through the classroom door.

He still looks the same, albeit a bit thinner than you remember. The dip of his collarbone more accentuated where it peeks past his neckline. Eyes heavy with knowledge in a way you’re discomfitingly familiar with. He’s sopping wet from the rain outside. Shoes squeaking on the floorboards as he steps into the room. Eyes locking onto yours almost immediately as he graces you with a small grin.

“Komaeda!” You smile. The sobriety of the moment forgotten as you rush forward to greet him. No more reserve course protests, no missing Tsumiki; just greeting a friend after a year of separation, “it’s good to see you.”

“You too.” His smile widens until his whole face is practically glowing. Hair sticking to his forehead as he absentmindedly brushes it out of his eyes, “and I’m terribly sorry about the letters. You went through the trouble of writing such wonderful things, and I wasn’t even there to open them! I assure you, I read them all as soon as I was rescued.”

“Rescued?”

“Plane crash, typical of my luck,” he shrugs dismissively. Making you feel like an asshole as you remember the anger you’d held mere seconds before.

“Oh, well, I’m glad you’re okay,” you say nervously. Wringing your hands as water drips from his sodden suit and pools on the floor, “are you cold? I can—“

“Alright alright. Enough with the touchy-feely reunion crap,” Kuzuryu says gruffly, arms crossed as he levels you both with a glare, “if you haven’t already forgotten, Tsumiki’s still missing.”

Komaeda smiles. Water streaming from his jacket as he thoughtfully taps his chin. “What a coincidence, I spotted her on the way here. In the West District.” The class startles, “should we go get her?”

And as his eyes slide over to meet yours, you can’t shake the feeling he knows more than he lets on.

* * * *

“It’s a trap.”

Your breath catches at Komaeda’s mumbled words. Frozen still as screens crackle to life and cast a sickly, white glow across the tile. Red curtains rustling as an ominous, constant hum pierces the air and sets your teeth on edge. Like a distant scraping at the back of your skull. Nails against chalkboard and knives to whetstone. Scratch scratch scratching away at coherency.

A burst of static, and the pixels clear. A smiling face coming into focus as your stomach drops to your feet. Recognition dawning as dread crawls through your veins like creeping vines on an old church.

“Every good show needs a heart-stopping first act, doesn’t it? It’s punishment time!”

Enoshima Junko.

You’re rooted to the spot. Snapped back to the moment when the bullet pierced Komaeda’s heart and sent him sprawling to the floor. Only this time there’s no handbook to block it. No handbook to protect Nanami.

And all you can do is watch. Tears streaming down your face as your friend fights through hell. Hoping and praying with all your might as she stumbles through the maze. A trail of blood streaming in her wake as she takes one last step…

_Shthunk_

A cry wrends itself from your throat as spikes erupt from the ground and spear her through. Dead dead dead dead _dead_ . Limp and lifeless like a doll that’s been tortured and picked apart so _gruesomely._ Not even recognizable as the spears retract and she drops to the ground in a heap. Chest still as blood drips from her parted lips. Forever stuck in a silent scream of betrayal.

_No…this isn’t...this can’t be happening..._

Your friend’s sobs fade into the background as buzzing static overtakes your brain. Hope crushed to a pulp beneath Enoshima’s booted heel, not even the dregs remaining. Insides rotting as your ribs collapse in, knives stabbing into the blackened flesh of your organs. It hurts it hurts it hurts so _deliciously._ Breath coming short as you taste salt on your tongue. The ground opening up beneath you like a monster's ugly maw, sending you spiraling into the deep. Scrabbling for purchase as your hands are cut open on the jagged rows of teeth. Plunging into the darkness as despair swallows you whole.

Despair. Despair on a level you could never imagine. Eaten up from the inside out like a sickness, a rot. Burnt to ashes and born anew like a twisted phoenix rising from the ruins. Despair despair despair despair—

There’s a hiccup in your chest. Komaeda’s distant, empty laughter buzzing in your ears as he shakes at your side. One last act of rebellion shining through as you brush your knuckles against his and thread your fingers together. Your voice joining his as you throw your head back and laugh and laugh and laugh and—


	2. the new world needed room for me and you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments and kudos! You guys are the greatest <3
> 
> Also I changed the order of things, but there shouldn’t be any canon divergence
> 
> Content warning: suicide, death, blood, gore, amputation, sh, sickness, abuse, smut, memory loss, suicidal ideation, implied prostitution

It only takes a day for the world to end.

You watch it happen. All of it. Hope's Peak engulfed in flames that stretch up towards the sky like desperate, reaching hands. Reserve course students plummeting to the ground like Icarus into the sea. Wings of blood and knives and wicked, wicked laughter splintering into nothingness. Into the air that whistles as they hit the ground with a sickly, almost cartoonish _splat._

And it spreads, the despair. Like an infection, a rot. Weeds taking root and corrupting what was once a beautiful garden of roses. It calls for blood, for suffering. A siren song that your friends follow like a ship to jagged rocks. Too entranced to notice the danger, or perhaps actively seeking it out.

And thus, the class of 77-B splits like dandelion fluff scattering in the wind. Each off on their own ventures with maybe a companion or two to help them on the way. Pekoyama and Kuzuryu, Nidai and Owari, Mioda and Saionji.

And of course, you and Komaeda.

Your despair is quiet, subdued. Smothered by a thousand different masks that hides the rotten core within. And Komaeda’s is...solely Komaeda’s. It’s for the sake of hope, he says. That soon despair will give way to the most beautiful, shining hope imaginable. Like the sun rising after months of pitch black darkness. To warm the earth and coax it back to normal, ushering everyone into an age of prosperity and peace.

You shrug and believe him. Komaeda’s always right. What Komaeda says goes. And if despair is a stepping stone to hope, so be it.

It’s all for Komaeda. Not Enoshima, never Enoshima. _He’s_ the reason why you infiltrate ragtag groups of survivors. _He’s_ the reason why you pick them off one by one. Every time they abandon hope, give in to despair, _he’s_ in your thoughts as you show them what a mistake that is. 

Ultimate Companion, Ultimate Despair. Appearing at their doorsteps with Komaeda on your arm. Sobbing and screaming, _please help oh god please my baby! Our baby is out there please you need to help them—_ Pity, kindness, _trust._ A part of the group as you indulgently kiss Komaeda’s cheek and hold him close. Whispering in his ear what could be mistaken for words of comfort. His laughter confused for tears as his shoulders shake and eyes go watery. _What if I killed that one? She’s already given up, what an idiot. And she’s been so cruel to you, Komaeda. It‘a a privilege she doesn’t deserve, to be a stepping stone to hope. But don’t you think it’s better for the world if she’s not in it? Oh, I feel better already just imagining her gone._ Sobbing in his arms and hiding a smile against his neck as _who could do this? Who could kill someone so_ brutally? _We need to keep our heads up, hold out hope. It’s what she would’ve wanted…_ Dancing on collapsing rooftops, buildings emptied and soaked through with blood as he twirls you in his arms. Too close to the edge as you debate between jumping off and pulling him down with you.

It’s all for hope.

_All for you._

* * * *

He’s hurt. Sickeningly deep gouges in his cheek that weep with blood. Acrylic nails dug into flesh, nail polish not even dried as it’s smeared across porcelain skin. Bruising and tears and a bald spot at the back of his head like someone tore his hair out. A purpling mark on his forehead that tells the story. Of impatience and annoyance and Enoshima grabbing him by the hair and slamming his head down on the table.

Though you’re not much of a detective for figuring it out. You were there, after all. Right next to Komaeda as Enoshima sat at the head of the table. Ikusaba standing at her left, a peculiar red-eyed man lurking in the back, and the other despairs sitting at the table with hungry, simpering looks on their faces. Not even flinching as Enoshima digs her nails into Komaeda’s cheek. Forcing his lips to pucker as she presses a finger against his mouth with a sick twist of a smile. Shushing him loudly with the exaggerated air of a mother scolding a child.

It’s a blur. Instinct. A howl on your lips as you lunge across the table and hurl yourself at Enoshima. The only thing running through your mind being _vengeance vengeance vengeance_ and the oh-so-sweet image of your fingers around Enoshima’s pretty neck.

You fail, despairingly so. Enoshima not even bothering to glance up as Ikusaba knocks you aside and throws you to the ground. Something cracking as you taste copper in the back of your throat.

And then Enoshima’s attention is on you. Just you! How impossibly disgusting and perfect and you’re so revoltedly excited you might just die. Squirming and shouting as she half-assedly kicks you in the side and sets her boot on your chest. Pushing down down down until you can do nothing but choke and sputter.

“God, if you wanted to start a cat fight you coulda just asked,” Enoshima drawls, the sharp heel of her boot pressing painfully into your sternum, “that was pathetic. I was embarrassed just watching you! I almost let you hit me just to make you feel better about it.”

She kicks your chin and your head falls back. The red eyes of the mysterious observer burning into your skin before moving on. Already bored of the spectacle.

Enoshima huffs. Fixing the smudge on her nails as she applies another coating of crimson polish. “Whatevs, I’ll just have the fan club deal with you,” she flicks her wrist and polish spatters the table like specks of blood, “despairs! Do your...despair thing! Fuck ‘em up for little ol’ me.” She simpers at the end, valley girl accent cutting through as she bites her lip and bats her lashes, “pwetty puh-lease?”

You can’t help but giggle as chairs scrape against checkered tile. The despairs standing up as they descend on you like a hunk of meat tossed to strays. Ready to avenge the slight against their beloved leader. Collars tight around their throats as Enoshima tugs at the leash.

A smile stretches your lips as Komaeda’s fingers wrap around your neck.

And you laugh as the rest close in.

* * * *

There is blood and there are bodies and there is Komaeda. 

The streets are empty, ghostly. Concrete split and yawning open with hollowed cars crumpled inside the ditch. The scent of death permeating the air as bodies rot underfoot. Rancid and sweet with a smokey taste of soot that cakes your throat with every breath.

It’s a haunting image. Komaeda laid out on the asphalt, hair a frazzled halo as he blinks up at you with lidded eyes. Death and destruction all around as you dig your boot into his crotch.

He gasps, shudders. The moment loveless and needy, the exact opposite of what the old you would’ve wanted. No declarations of affection, no softness nor gentility. Just Komaeda humping against your leather sole as you press down against the tent in his pants.

Because he’s dying. Because his brain’s rotting in his skull like a Halloween pumpkin a week after the holiday ends. Molded and fuzzy and practically leaking out his ears along with coherency.

Frontotemporal dementia, he’d told you. When you were both sat atop the dented hood of a sedan. His luck having graced you with a box of melted freezey pops. The two of you downing them like shots as sugar stained your teeth. Blood on your chin from the broken nose you’d just finished setting.

Lymphoma, he’d said on another occasion. Your legs dangling over the edge of the rooftop as you looked out over the burning horizon. Your hand in his hair with his head in your lap, tugging every so often just to keep him on his toes.

Common cold, he’d said the week before. Shivering and weak under piles of blankets as you scrambled for medication. Nearly dying as you held a doctor at gunpoint and forced them to treat him. Shooting them point blank as they stabbed Komaeda with the IV you’d been foolish enough to trust them with.

And you’re scared. Because the only way Komaeda’s allowed to die is by your hand. And certainly not before hope wins out against despair. (And, childishly, you’re afraid of being left alone. Of having no one to turn to except Enoshima).

He’s babbling, you realize distantly. Desperate pleas sandwiched between abject praise and self-deprecation. Mouth gaping as drool trails from the corner of his lip and down his jaw. It’s pathetic, and he says so. Every breath punctuated by a whine as you lower yourself to the ground and straddle him. Fingers dancing down his heaving chest and dipping below his waistband. Gripping him in your hand—slick and hard with a heat that scalds your palm—and giving him a quick, cursory pump.

Today’s one of the good days. One of the days where he gets up without complaint and remembers most things. This time, he remembers you’ve done this before (he’d forgotten the other day. Had broken down in tears and sobbed something that suspiciously sounded like _I love you_ ). He’s not scary today, either. Not chewing on the cuff of his sleeve and staring off with empty, glassy eyes. Curled up and weak with thinning hair and thinner limbs. Emaciated and shivering with birdcage ribs and a weak, canary heart that doesn’t give more than a flutter.

He moans, and you’re back in the moment. Watching eagerly as he arches up into your touch like a bow drawn taut. Feet kicking like a toddler throwing a tantrum as he squeezes his eyes shut. A pink flush rising to his cheeks that you know goes all the way down. Pretty boy. Perfect boy. Dying boy.

You know it’s getting worse. All of it, really. Luck finally catching up with him and sending his health into a downward spiral. It’s his luck that keeps him alive. That keeps him walking even as he’s nothing but a hollowed corpse. And now, that’s come back to bite him. You can _smell_ death on him. The reaper dogging his every step even as a smile sticks to his face. Happy despite it all, despite the pain. Because _at least my luck hurts only me! I was so afraid you’d be caught in the crossfire...but it seems this may be good luck after all, haha!_

You wish his luck had chosen you instead.

You can’t watch this. Can’t stand spending every moment waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’s so despairingly _awful,_ and maybe that’s why you stay. Leeching off the inevitable agony of Komaeda’s death like a buzzard circling overhead.

He’s begging, now. High and breathless in a way that sends heat straight to your gut. Words blending together so that there’s not even a breath between them. _Please please please oh please let me come I’m so sorry I don’t deserve it but please—!_

And maybe it’s pity, maybe it’s love. Maybe it’s to satisfy a dying man’s wish. But your opposite hand finds its way to his throat and your lips brush against the shell of his ear. A whisper, a single word, and he’s putty in your hands as he falls to pieces beneath you. 

It’s gorgeous, perfect. Something to be framed and hung in a museum. To keep in your memories even as his turn to dust. Even as he forgets your name and cries over it. Even as you slip from his mind yet your importance stays. The boy clinging to you despite _do I know you? Ah, I’m sorry. It must be so burdensome, me following you around like this. Yet I can’t seem to stay away…_ Sometimes he forgets you entirely. Startling under your touch and running away before his body gives out beneath him. Sprawled out on the sidewalk, hollering and sobbing as you scoop him up and hold him tight. Weakly pounding his fists against your chest, clawing and scratching in a desperate bid to break free. You shush him, pet his hair, and he calms eventually. Giving in to exhaustion and submitting to the stroking with almost a hint of contentment.

The capital-I Incident happens the very next day. The pulse that once hammered against your palm now weak and almost stagnant. Komaeda vibrating with energy in a way that terrifies you, that defies nature itself. Clutching at his sides with trembling pupils that dilate until his irises are just rings of color. Lunging towards you with a viciousness you’ve never even seen. With a strength that seems impossible for his frail body.

And you run like a coward. Locking yourself in the bathroom of the apartment you’d ransacked and bracing the door. Guiltily thankful for his failing strength as he tries and fails to break in. Throwing himself against the door for a few minutes before finally losing interest. He’s screaming, hollering. Scratching at himself as he paces the room without pause. Begging for you to _come back,_ for the impostor who’d stolen your skin to _shrivel up and die_. To burn in the fires of hell for daring to take your face, your name, your voice. Wheezing laughter growing in a crescendo before dropping to a hiccuping giggle and then a continuous, pained moan. Crying for his mom in a sad, childish voice that quickly shifts to a hellish shriek.

You don’t know what to do you don’t know what to do you don’t know what to do. He’s sobbing and screeching and shouting and any moment now he’ll either collapse to the floor or find a way in. And then what? Will he tear the skin from your face? Cut you open to see if you’re still there inside? Maybe luck will come through and he’ll snap back. Or he’ll peacefully fall asleep and you can slip out to safety.

Luck luck luck. A push and pull between good and bad, fortune and misfortune. Luck is absolute power. Luck is a curse. Luck is a cycle that never lets up. It’s bad right now, but it just needs a little push to shift to good. Like Sisyphus’ boulder rolling down the hill.

Komaeda says you getting hurt is awful, despairing. That you’re the only thing that matters to him in an otherwise hopeless world. He calls you an angel, his hope. Looking at you like you hung the moon and stars and spun the world beneath.

So then...then...

You don’t realize what you’ve done until it’s over. Mirror shattered with glimmering shards scattered across the tile. Bloodied knuckles and sliced up palms as you grip a jagged slice in your hand. Plunging the shard into the meat of your thighs over and over and over again and again and again. Blood seeping through the fabric of your pants as you sink to the floor and lean against the wall. Movements sluggish as adrenaline fades like a whispery mirage. Pain slamming into you like a freight train as the glittering thread of consciousness fades into black.

The door breaks open with a splintering crash. Komaeda panting in the doorway as his wild gaze locks onto yours. Trembling and shaking as your vision darkens around the edges.

A painful smile stretches your lips. Teeth stained red as blood drips down your chin. 

“How _unlucky.”_

* * * *

He gets better.

It takes a slice across your arm and a knife through the palm, but he gets better. Though you know it won’t last and he knows it won’t last. Every cough and shiver sending you into a spiral as despair threatens to swallow you up.

And it’s absolutely _glorious._

But it’s a gamble, risky. And you won’t allow Komaeda to be bested by something as benign as illness. You forbid it. It’s _forbidden._

So you search for an answer. A cure, or at the very least a stall for time. To stop the sand from slipping between your fingers before it’s too late.

And you _find it._ An Ultimate, a scientist who claims to have what you need. A way to save the only person you’ve ever cared about and ever will care about. And as if that’s not convenient enough, it comes at an easy price.

Your body.

You give yourself up without question. Let them touch you, use you as they wish. You’d chop off your arm for Komaeda. Gouge out an eye for Komaeda. Carve out your heart and serve it on a silver platter for Komaeda. This is nothing. The bruises are nothing, the blood is nothing. All that matters is Komaeda is safe. That Komaeda lives.

Which is why…

“What have you _done!?”_ you scream. Falling to your knees as you stare at the mangled body of your salvation, “ _WHY!?”_

Why why why did this happen? You were so close, so close so close so close. All that knowledge and help fading away with every drip drip drip of the severed stump of the scientists neck. Komaeda soaked through with blood as he aims another kick to their fleshy rib cage.

You want to cry. You want to scream and laugh and sob until you waste away into nothing. Even Komaeda’s hand on your cheek doesn’t help. Thumb stroking over your lip as blood smears across your skin. Hollowed eyes boring into yours as his grip grows tight. Possessive.

“I did it for you,” he says breathlessly, devotedly, “no one else should touch you. No one else can mar your perfection, tarnish your hope. That privilege...the privilege of dirtying your body...” his whole body shakes as he digs his fingers into the soft flesh of your cheek. Drool trailing from his mouth as blood drips down his jaw, “that privilege belongs to _me._ ”

“Nagito…” your voice cracks, the boy shuddering at the use of his first name, “Nagito why…”

“I love you,” he whispers. Humming indulgently as you surge forward and crush your lips to his. Copper on your tongue as your hands coast into the tangled mess of his blood soaked hair. Because he’s _dying_ and you _love him_ and if he goes you go too.

“Nagito,” you whisper. Savoring the syllables on your tongue as you pant for breath, “you’re gonna die.”

He smiles. Still grinning as he slants his lips over yours once again.

“Isn’t that _wonderful?”_

* * * *

Enoshima Junko is dead.

You hear it through the grapevine. The Warriors of Hope devastated by Big Sis Junko’s demise. Crushed, they say. Flattened like a pancake. Barely salvageable. Hope winning out as despair is slowly beaten back into obscurity.

Servant laughs until he cries. Though maybe he’s just crying.

* * * *

You find her in a dumpster.

She’s barely recognizable. Mangled and hacked to pieces with a sheet thrown over the mess. Nothing like the unrelenting force she was in life. Nothing like the woman who brought the world to its knees.

It’s funny. What a funny joke.

Haha...ha…

Nagito is the first to act. He has a plan, an idea. Something he’d ranted about on the way over, chain jangling around his neck with every hurried step. Sometimes bumping against your own with a soft, metallic clang.

_To take her power, to become one with my sworn enemy...how amazing would that be!_

He’s quick, unhesitating. Hacking his hand off with the cleaver you’d so lovingly polished. Blood spurting from the stump in a constant stream as you dab at the mess. He doesn’t even need to cut off Enoshima’s arm. The flesh peeling away as he yanks off the piece he needs and shoves it into place. Smiling maniacally as you sew the flaps of skin together with a length of fishing line. Winding bandages around the gorey mess to hide the seam where Nagito meets Enoshima. 

And with that, you’re done. Nagito clutching at his bandaged wrist and bringing Enoshima’s hand to his cheek. Acrylic nails digging into skin just as they’d done years ago. He laughs, watching wide eyed as you pick up his amputated hand and cradle it to your chest. The last remnants of warmth bleeding away as you play with the limp fingers.

“What a waste,” you grin. Unwavering in your decision as you take the cleaver and chop off your own hand in two quick strikes. Nagito shaking with overwhelming devotion as he sews his own hand to you. Kissing the bandages as he holds up his handwork with a mixture of awe and repulsion.

“Perfect...you’re perfect,” he murmurs, “that you’d attach my own disgusting hand to your body, binding us for life…” a giggly laugh pushes up his throat, “it’s practically a marriage proposal!”

Your smile mirrors his. Indulging yourself in the fantasy of his hand truly becoming a part of you. Skin knitting together and blood vessels forming. Your blood and his blood pumping through your heart, your veins. Maybe you’ll steal his luck, counteract it. Maybe his illnesses will become yours and he’ll be free. Maybe you’ll be able to move the fingers, curl them around his cheek and quite literally subject him to self love. Bring a whole new meaning to masturba—

“Do you want it to be?” You hum, grinning widely as he nods and whines and throws his arms around your neck.

You always liked the name Komaeda.

* * * *

They come in the night.

You’re unprepared. Caught off guard. Startled awake as the Future Foundation storms your shelter with gas masks and guns. A scream caught in your throat as they grab the chain locked around your neck and pull. Voice cut short as you choke and gag. They make quick work of you, especially with you down a hand. Herding you towards an unmarked van with what you assume to be less than moral intentions.

Are you...are you going to die?

No. No no no! No you’re not going to die! Not like this! Not without your husband. Your husband whose greatest fear is dying alone, being forgotten. You can’t die you can’t die _you can’t die!_

“Nagito!” You cry, cut off with a yelp as you’re kneed in the side, “ _Nagito!”_

You can’t see him. You can’t see him you can’t see him _you can’t see him._ Did he get away? Is he safe? Did they kill him already please no don’t say they killed him—

There! Across a sea of blurry faces and tactical gear, it’s him. Strangely calm as they lead him into a different van and move to close the door.

“Nagito!” You scream, throat burning as every syllable cuts like daggers. Reaching out towards him as you fight for his attention, “don’t leave me! Please!” Your vision goes blurry as you’re smacked upside the head with a rifle. Tossed into the back of the van as you scramble against the chilling metal.

Your eyes lock, and he fights. Jaw dropping in a guttural scream as he surges forward with some half baked plan to help. Forced back as they slam the doors in his face. Muffled screams and thumps sounding from inside the van as Nagito throws himself at the door. Reminding you bitterly of the day you gave yourself the puckered scars dotted across your thighs.

“ _NO!”_ you screech, lunging forward in one last desperate attempt at escape, “don’t take him away from me! Please please please! I need him! I love him! _Please!_ ”

_I don’t want to die I don’t want to die I don’t want to—_

**[UPLOAD INTO NEO WORLD PROGRAM: SUCCESSFUL]**

**[REVERTING AVATAR…]**

**[10%...27%...43%...89%...100%]**

**[MEMORY LOCK: SUCCESS]**

**[INITIATING SIMULATION…]**

**[3...2...1]**

**[BEGIN]**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On today’s episode of how fucked up is fucked up, that’s fucked up.
> 
> Wow okay I don’t know how my brain came up with that, but it sure did! Also if anyone recognizes the significance the readers injuries I love you.


	3. poetry in motion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay final chapter whoop whoop!
> 
> I call this one ‘pre despair reader except 100 times more fucked up’
> 
> Content warning: blood, death, abusive relationships, illness, starvation, choking, suicide, assisted suicide, gore, manipulation

You hate your talent.

What use is the Ultimate Companion in a _killing game?_ There are no friends to be made here. No connections that’ll survive a quite literal knife to the back. All these ridiculous notions of friendship and teamwork are meaningless. Empty promises that rattle like empty cans in a trash bin. Frivolous words as thin as tissue paper. Sparkling and glimmering, torn apart with a single swipe of your fingernails. _Worthless_. 

Yet you play along. Meek and kind with a happy-go-lucky attitude that makes even the bleakest amongst you smile. Flitting from group to group and sowing seeds of trust, companionship. Creeping roots that dig into the soil and hold on tight. Collecting allies like trading cards. Things to be gathered and hoarded and whipped out in times of need.

And look where that complacency got you. A classmate dead. Done in by your easily swayed peers, trusting each other enough to throw a _party_ of all things. Togami was smart. His plan was clever, but not foolproof.

And now he’s dead.

He's dead, and you may just be next.

Arguing, arguing, arguing. Polluting the air with words, firing them like bullets from a gun. Checkered tiles and chilled air that raises goosebumps on your skin. Monokuma lording over the trial on a throne of red plush, an impish smile on his face as he stifles giggles into his paws. Any semblance of normalcy, of the friendship you’d turned your nose up at, is smashed to smithereens like a block tower beneath a toddler's pudgy fists. Ripped out from beneath you and baring you to the world. Your classmates realizing that there’s no trust here. No happy ending in sight. No deus ex machina that will protect them from the inevitable.

It’s horrible, terrifying.

_Exhilarating._

Those dreams, those whispery imaginings of you tugging the puppet strings. A smile on your lips as you lead the lemmings off a cliff. They’ve finally been realized. An opportunity presented to you all wrapped up with a pretty red bow. Oh, how on _earth_ could you refuse?

And maybe it’s wrong. Downright diabolical, even. Self-serving and cruel for you to take advantage of the situation. To paint yourself as hope though you’re nothing more than an antagonist in a shoddily fitting trench coat.

But it’s not! You’re _helping._ You’d never have gotten this far in the deliberations if not for your gentle coaxing. Sugary sweet promises and delicate simpering, a bat of your eyelashes and a duck of the head. Pressing uncomfortably with wide eyes and a watery stare that draws the truth out like flies to honey. It’s easy. Boring. Your classmates predictable archetypes that you have mapped out in seconds. 

All but one, that is. 

He’s hard to read, that Komaeda. A book with half its pages scribbled out and torn, eaten away by moths with ink bleeding through the paper. Skirting around the edges of relevance with a quiet sort of acceptance. Like he’s happy being away from the spotlight, not wanting to shadow the glow. 

It’s strange. He’s strange.

Yet you have a feeling that the two of you are embroiled in some sort of tug of war. Both of you pulling at the strings with the same goal in mind. Tangling the ropes as your plans clash like the Titanic and the iceberg. A chessboard with a delicate mingling of black and white. 

The question is, are you the queen…or the pawn?

Either way, it’s shockingly easy to get caught up in the little game you’re playing. Unraveling his fascinating contradictions like a spider plucking at their web. His mask slipping little by little as yours remains firmly attached, though you’re sure that’s no accident. He’s far too clever for such a blunder. To make such a glaring mistake. Everything he does has a purpose, however misguided it may be. And the yawning cracks in his facade only grow wider with every intentional stumble. With you practically drooling over the chaotic brilliance of the man standing across from you. Enthralled by his ideologies like a moth to flame.

He makes sense he makes sense _he makes sense._ Ramblings of hope and talent that resonates in your poor, questioning soul. Your peers condemn him, turn on him, but they were idiots before and they’re idiots now. Blind to the truth like the prisoners refusing to turn from the cave wall. Content with the shadows and refusing to venture out into the sunlight.

And as wheezing laughter cuts through the tense silence, something clicks into place. Something dark and pleasant that slots into your mind like an old friend returning home.

_Ah, there you are._

_I’ve been waiting._

* * * *

Barbarians, all of them. 

Chaining up Komaeda, leaving him for dead with no plan to care for him. Like a child begging for a hamster only to leave it to rot. A whole day of him wasting away in the stuffy, blood soaked dining hall. Not even granting him the dignity of simple bathroom breaks.

 _Friends_ , what a joke…

It’s easy to sneak away while they’re all arguing about him. Pointing fingers and shouting, the ghosts of the trial room still lingering in your midst. They don’t even notice you’re gone. Don’t even notice the missing tray and the butter slick knife left on the table. A trail of crumbs in your wake as you pluck a chilled bottle of milk from the cooler and make your way across the beach. The rickety stairs of the old hotel building creaking under your weight as you slip inside. You can see him, clinging to the shadows as he lays vulnerable on his side. Rope wound up his crooked legs and hands tied behind his back with a thick, iron chain. Chest barely moving as he takes slow, labored breaths. Blinking up at you as an eerie smile stretches his chapped lips. Strangely at ease despite your situation.

“Oh, someone’s come to visit little old me? How exciting!” Komaeda grins widely, head lolling back as he peers up at you through heavy lids, “and it’s _you!_ I wish I could invite you in, but I’m rather... _indisposed_ at the moment.”

“I can see that,” you say blandly, “it’s cruel, for them to treat you this way. You don’t deserve it.”

He shrugs, unbothered. Cheek resting against the carpet as his lips upturn in a sickeningly soft smile. “Whatever the Ultimate’s decide is best. Their word is law, after all. And if that means I’m tied up here, well, I more than deserve it.” His smile turns dark, twisted. A shadow across his face that brings out the madness in his eyes, “after all, I’m the one that killed poor Hanamura, right? And Togami, too. I don’t deserve to live. The Ultimates say so, so it must be true.” Your fingers curl tighter around the edge of the tray. Plastic digging into your palm as you remain frozen in the doorway. Annoyance festering in your gut on principle alone. “I know you’re angry. You must be. Me, the killer, mocking your late friend’s deaths! How shameless, how cruel! Doesn’t it upset you? Enrage you? Don’t you want to shut me up?” The chain links jingle against each other as Komaeda shakes. Mouth open in a wide, cackling grin like a gash carved into a rotting pumpkin, “kill me. Do it. It’ll be easy. No one will know. Think of the hope my death will bring, the one who plotted and executed the deaths of two of your own. No one will miss me! They might even applaud you once you’re found out!”

“No,” you say simply, stepping closer and looming over Komaeda like a towering statue, “do you think I’m an idiot?”

“Ah, of course not!” He scrambles, flinching at your accusation as if you’d threatened to slap him, “I’d never say such a thing to an _Ultimate._ It's like a peasant spitting in a monarch's face!”

Your lips purse at his less than flattering words. A spark of pity in your gut as you imagine what had inspired him to think so badly of himself.

“Then don’t lie. Or at least, don’t manipulate the truth,” you squat down and set the tray aside, steepling your fingers and resting your chin atop them, “you didn’t plan to kill.” You say it so surely, without even a hint of doubt. It’s not a question, it’s a statement. “The blackout was too short, too dark. If you’d done so, you’d have been found out in seconds.” Your fingertips trace the weave of the carpet. Watching as his expression shifts from confidence to uncertainty, “there’d be no hope from such an outcome. And that’s the exact opposite of what you want, am I right?”

He nods dumbly. Looking at you in a new light as your fingers spiral closer and closer to his face. Tangling in the wayward strands of his hair and petting them away from his eyes.

“And you’re not so bold as to kill another Ultimate. How did you put it...selfless love?” You hum contemplatively. A sick sort of retribution spiking through you at his baffled confusion. Now look who’s pulling the strings, _Komaeda._ The once deceitful puppet master melting beneath your stroking as he stares up at you in silent awe. It makes you feel powerful. All morals thrown out the window long, long ago, “no, you didn’t plan to kill that night.” You lean down, his stuttered breath brushing over your skin as you lower your voice. A quiet hush meant for the two of you alone, “you planned to die.”

He blinks. Laughter bursting from his chest as he fixes you with a commending grin. “I underestimated you, Ultimate Companion. I’ll make sure not to make such a mistake again.” His smile remains even as the subject matter grows dark, “and yes, I suppose you’re right. I _did_ mean to die beneath that table. How despairing. That my luck should fail so spectacularly and get poor Togami caught up in the mess.” He bites at the underside of his cheek. A neurotic sort of motion that makes up for his restraints, “but the fact that you’ve managed to unravel such a mystery...it’s unbelievably impressive! I can feel hope welling back up inside me, knowing that someone as perceptive as you is on the side of hope.” You withdraw your hand from his hair and he almost chases after the contact. Following the movement of your fingers with rapt attention as they drift back towards the abandoned tray, “I should’ve known you’d figure it out. Out of all the Ultimates here...it’s like you’re...you’re the only one who might understand…” He trails off into a murmur. A discomfiting sense of deja vu blanketing the moment as soft eyes find yours. Like razor blades cushioned in plush fabric.

“I...I brought you food,” you say after seconds of weighted, awkward silence. Dragging the tray between you before realization hits and brings a flush to your cheeks.

“I’d gladly eat it, but…” he shakes his hands for emphasis. Chains shaking as his wrists chaff against the cuffs, “well, you know...”

_Oh, you know._

“Here, I’ll help you,” you coax. Unhesitatingly gathering him in your arms and cradling his head in your lap. An unnecessarily intimate position that somehow feels completely...well... _necessary._ However strange that desire may be.

“Oh, I can’t ask you to do that,” he refuses. Turning his head only to jerk back upon burying his face in your stomach, “you’ve been more than kind, you don’t have to dirty yourself with the likes of me.”

Completely unashamed, you grip a slice of buttered toast between thumb and forefinger and bring it up to his lips. His mouth pressed into a firm line as his face flushes a blotchy pink. A pretty dusting of rouge atop pale porcelain.

“You look clean to me. Handsome, even,” you refute, bread pressing insistently up to his lips, “now _eat.”_

His mouth opens more so in shock than compliance. Taking the toast between his teeth in a tentative bite. Throat working as his Adam's apple bobs with every swallow. Your opposite hand resumes playing with his hair. Winding and rewinding the strands around your fingers with absentminded curiosity.

“I know that you’re right,” you say thoughtfully, off put by the marblesque chill of his skin, “mad, certainly. But a genius nonetheless.” The moment is strange, tension permeating the air as your gazes lock. His breath coming short as he shakes in your lap like a leaf in the wind. “Despair leading to an even stronger hope… The others say it’s extreme, but it seems we both know the truth, hm?” He finishes the last piece of bread with an eager swallow. Lips brushing the tips of your fingers as you carefully prop him up and twist off the cap of the milk. Bringing the rim to his mouth and tilting the bottle up so he can drink. “Hope will triumph over any obstacle in its way.”

He’s like a kid on Christmas morning. Milk dribbling down his chin as you set aside the bottle and wipe it away with your sleeve. Trembling and shaking with glazed, adoring eyes that sweep over you in quiet reverence. Too shaken up to speak as he grins wildly. You’ve gotten yourself an alliance. A friend you may actually trust.

And with a heavy sigh, you cup his face in your hands and run your fingers along his jaw. “But despite all that, I’m not gonna kill you.

Not yet, at least.”

* * * *

Komaeda is the best secret you’ve ever had.

You need each other, you find. Komaeda needing an ear and you needing guidance. A priest exalting to their followers, desperate for an audience that deigns to listen. Dependency winding around your bones like a rope tethering you to the luckster. So wound up in a web of your own making that you don’t know who’s pulling the strings anymore.

But strangely, you’re okay with the mystery. The vulnerability. More than willing to let Komaeda grab hold of the reins. It’s instinct. A trust so deeply ingrained that it scares you how quick you are to give up control.

Which is why this disease absolutely _terrifies_ you.

Despair Disease. A sickness that renders Komaeda a sweaty, babbling mess in an instant. Lies spilling from his lips faster than you can even blink. Like dark smoke billowing from a pipe, suffocating you in noxious clouds of black.

And he’s _dying._ An anxiety that settles into your skin so naturally it’s as if you’ve felt it before. Pale faced and shaking, cackling with laughter even as he marches to the grave. No one to stand by his bedside as he screams for everyone to _stay away!_ and _leave me alone!_

It’s ironic. That something dubbed the Liars Disease makes him so shamefully truthful. A thin veneer of falsehood that’s easy to sweep away. Gripping the nugget of truth within his words like a hunter collecting their prize. Identifying his words for what they are, panicked cries of _stay stay stay._

So you do. Or at the very least, do so in secret. Haunting his bedside like a ghost, skittish and flighty whenever footsteps echo in the hallway. Because if you’re seen waiting by Komaeda’s side, there’ll be questions. Questions you’re in no mood to answer.

At least Tsumiki doesn’t ask. Though that in itself is rather concerning. She’s a nosy girl, even if she doesn’t mean to be. Stumbling into touchy subjects only to break down blubbering when someone gets snappy.

She’s quiet, now. Checking Komaeda’s pulse with cool certainty. Fingers dragging over his windpipe in thoughtful contemplation. Knuckles flexing as she curiously presses her palm against his throat. An uncharacteristic move that sets your teeth on edge.

“Tsumiki…” you say in warning, voice a low growl that makes the poor girl start.

“A-ah! I-I’m sorry,” she stutters, though you have a feeling she’s really not, “i-it looks l-like he’s getting b-better…”

Almost petty in his interruption, Komaeda pipes up in a raspy grimace.

“I’m completely fine! Never felt better!” He grins, lips splitting as he smiles. Face flushed with a whisper of sweat on his brow, “thank you Tsumiki for your loving care. Please stay for a while longer!”

“O-oh t-thank you I—“ her face grows scarily dark for a second before the expression shutters away. Tears in her eyes as she sniffles and hides her face, “you d-don’t need to b-be so c-cruel!”

She runs out with a howling wail. A strange sense of relief welling within you as you turn back to Komaeda. Empty eyes boring into yours with a cruel grin that sends a shiver up your spine.

“Aren’t you going to follow her?” He giggles, lips pulling back in a drooling grin, “you should, I want you to. Her hope is the brightest I’ve ever seen, I’d prefer it to your disgusting despair any day.”

You reach out to touch him, unsurprised as he slaps your hand away like he’s done a thousand times before. Mustering up his last bits of energy to forcefully shove you back. Though it’s more like a half-drowned kitten trying to escape a paper bag. A weak slap that does nothing more than exhaust him.

“Don’t touch me!” His lips pull back in a sneer, the effect lost as his skin turns a concerning shade of blue, “your revolting hands on my perfect body...you make me sick!”

“Komaeda…” you sigh, brushing his hair back even as he turns his face away. His skin burning hot with fever, a stark contrast to the icy chill he usually bears.

“I despise you! Go away! I never want to see you ever again!” He shouts, voice cracking in delirium as he begins to weakly thrash, “I feel terrible around you, I hate it and I love that I hate it!”

It hurts something fierce, to listen to Komaeda’s devastating insults. Even with the knowledge that what he says isn’t true, you can feel the hurt of his words dig into your psyche. Burying roots that coax to life your deepest insecurities. Codependency isn’t healthy. You know that. You’ve read hundreds of books on the topic. Yet all you can feel is the overwhelming desire for his reassurance. For him to approve of you, for him to care for you so deeply he’d do anything for you. Like you already do for him.

“You deserve happiness, Komaeda,” you answer, tuning out his babbling protests, “now rest, I’ll be right here if you need me.”

“I don’t need you.”

“I know. I don’t need you, too.”

* * * *

“How would you kill me?”

For once, Komaeda’s question doesn’t startle you. Everything feels heavy, the air itself pushing down on you as you sink into the luxurious plush of Komaeda’s bedding. The two of you sprawled out on the Deluxe Room bed, an ocean of space between you as a silky canopy flutters above. Vision blurring around the edges as hunger pangs distantly in your stomach.

You’ve been locked in the Funhouse for what feels like an eternity. Wasting away like candle stubs melting into nothing. No food, no water; nothing but Monokuma tai-chi and awkward motivational speeches by Hinata to break up the apathy. Strawberry House is unnervingly bright, but you’ll put up with it if it means you have a bed that doesn’t creak with every move. And if you die amongst sheets of goose down and fluff, at least everyone else will get out of here.

Komaeda’s not as willing to wait.

You’re not unused to his self-sacrificial tendencies. A sickening ideation that makes something dark churn in your stomach. An acrid poison that burns as it comes up your throat. Normally you’d shoot down his morbid questionings. But you’re hungry, oh-so very hungry. A constant ache that flares to life at the possibility of _food._ Of an end to the weakness that saps your strength and leaves you nothing more than a limp rag doll. There’s a desperation thrumming beneath your skin. Desperation that tamps down your refusal and leaves you wondering, pondering. Exhausting the last of your strength as you prop yourself up and loom over Komaeda’s prone body. White lashes fanning out over waxen, sallow cheeks. Chest barely rising as he blinks up at you with a hazy half-smile that only encourages your fogged up mind.

“How would I kill you?” You repeat, voice a low rasp like sandpaper over ragged wood. Days of thirst catching in your throat like silk on sharp brambles. Your hands shake as they drag up his front. Fabric rippling beneath your fingertips in a sea of creamy white bordered by mossy green. Tracing the angled dip of his collarbone before reaching the shallow flutter of his pulse. You press against it for a moment. The beating strangely even beneath your fingertips. Calm. Even as your hands bracket his neck and squeeze.

“ _Yes,”_ Komaeda hisses, bringing his hands up to grip at your fingers in encouragement. A burning chill that only makes you squeeze harder. “Kill me in a way that matters. For the sake of—ghk—!”

You cut him off with a press of your thumb against his windpipe. Eyes zeroed in on the pink of his tongue as his mouth falls open in a wheezing gasp. Breath rattling like dice in a Yahtzee cup. 

You lean forward. Weight resting against his throat as his breathing fades to a wet gurgle. Adoration shining through his gaze even as his eyes go lidded, bugging out of his skull as blue veins pop on his forehead. His hands scramble against yours. A fighting instinct that his brain hoists upon him as he’s starved for oxygen. Clawing marks that’ll only condemn you as the killer. That’ll give the game away.

So you let go. Komaeda gasping for breath as his expression sours with disappointment. Still panting as you wipe away a line of drool with the pad of your thumb. A ruination that you can’t help but lord over. Like smashing Michelangelo’s David at your feet and posturing over the chunks of marble. A pale beauty rendered to shambles by your steady hand.

“It’s sickeningly romantic, don’t you think?” You hum, watching gleefully as the red marks around his throat begin to bruise. Revering in the way he shivers as your lips brush over his temple and whisper into his ear, “that the last thing you’ll ever see, will be _me.”_

For better or worse.

* * * *

You’re so fucking _pathetic._

Tossed to the curb like a crummy plastic bag. A stray left to the streets only to come limping back home. Scrabbling at the door only to be shut out and shouted at. You were arrogant, cocky. Thinking you had him wrapped around your pinky finger only to find yourself cut loose. Untethered and directionless like a boat floating alone at sea. 

What did you do _wrong?_ What did you do to make Komaeda hate you so _vehemently?_ Hate you all, even. Turn up his nose and scoff where there was once blind admiration.

You’re desperate for an answer, for closure. Willing to get on your knees and beg. Grovel at his feet and bow to the floor for a chance at forgiveness. For a word to be spoken in your direction. For him to even just kick you in the face. To think you once held the strings. Now so tangled and strung up in the ropes that Komaeda can easily pluck at the web. His own personal doll. If Pekoyama called herself a tool...what would that make you?

“ _Pathetic.”_

You whimper in humiliated agreement. Knelt on the floor of Komaeda’s cottage with your hands clasped in front of you. Begging for forgiveness with what little dignity you have left as he looms above you. Shadowing you with a sneer on his lips.

“Please,” you whisper, refusing to meet his eye as you stare down at his shoes, “please, all I’m asking for is an explanation...”

A hand grips your chin and angles your face upwards. Forcing you to meet his gaze even as your eyes flit away. Focusing instead on the downward twist of his lips.

“Do you really think you deserve one?” He spits. A distant, shoved down part of you laughing at the shift of dynamics.

The other, more present part of you is absolutely devastated.

“No…” you trail off with a forced whimper, eyes wide and purposefully teary. Staring into the overhanging lights until tears sting at the corners, “but something happened in the Final Dead room. I need...I need to know what you found.”

Blunt nails dig into the flesh of your cheek, and you finally meet Komaeda’s gaze. Freezing in place at the turbulent emotions you find spiraling in the depths. Pain and betrayal and a vehement, inward hurt that’s been turned outward like a shirt folded inside out.

“Ultimate Despair.”

You balk at the words. His lips pulling back in a wide, toothy grin that betrays no lies. Madness flaring to life like gasoline on a roaring house fire.

“Ultimate Despair? How—“ you stumble over your words. Dropping the helpless act like hot coals as genuine fear wells up from within, “what...what do you mean? How can _that_ be _here?_ ”

His fingers drift from your jaw and lock around your throat. Squeezing once in warning as the air is forced from your lungs. Heart beating a panicked tattoo against your ribs.

“It’s us,” he whispers, giggling laughter bolstering his words as his voice grows in a crescendo, “ _we’re_ Ultimate Despair. Wolf’s in sheep’s clothing. Predators that think they’re prey, that forgot how to hunt.”

“No…” you choke out, wheezing as his grip tightens.

“Yes!” He shouts, “there’s no way to win. Because no matter what, despair wins out. There’s no hope, right?” His smile is wide, expectant. As if he thinks you can speak around his hand on your windpipe. “But there’s redemption. A chance to sow the seeds for hope to blossom, even if we’re not there to see it.”

“ _We?”_

He murmurs your name. Releasing your throat only to cup your face in his hands. A shift in atmosphere that gives you whiplash. Something breaking inside as he coos over you like a lost kitten. Tears running down your face as he wipes them away with long withheld tenderness.

“Together, we can rid the world of the despairs and shed our titles. Redeem ourselves and don a new talent that’s far more befitting of our sacrifice,” his smile grows manic, with a softer edge you surround yourself in like a blanket. Startled into hazy silence as his lips slam against yours. Wet and aggressive with a taste of salt on your tongue. You return the kiss with passionate fervor. Familiarity deep within your bones as your eyes fall shut and you push forward. Pulling away as the last piece falls into place. The final string that leaves you dangling from his fingers, “Ultimate Hope.”

Well, how on earth could you refuse?

* * * *

You failed him.

You failed his dying wish.

Everything was set so perfectly. The poison, the fire, the spear. Final, whispered promises followed by a knife stabbed into his flesh. Directions so specific that they had to have meaning, though he wouldn’t tell you why.

_Stab here, slash there. I have to repent. I have to make amends._

Apologies and empty words of comfort as he screams behind the tape. Petting blood streaked hair away from his face as pain-glazed eyes lock onto yours. Fingers shaking as he grips the cord with steely determination. The spear looming above like an executioners axe. The shaft shaking slightly as you plunge the knife into his hand.

One last goodbye. A kiss to a bloody forehead. Hymnals qued and cutouts lined up like dominos, closing the door with a booming click that echos in your soul. And you’re back with the group. Watching videos of your love—unsullied and alive—with an aching pain in your chest.

_The warehouse! The bastards been waiting there like a coward, sending us on a goddamn wild goose chase for shits and giggles!_

Owari kicks open the door. You step forward and stumble into the cardboard line up. An accident, you say. The _thump thump thump_ of tumbling cardboard drowned out by the dreary choir. A click only you can hear, only you know about, and fire shoots up in a sudden, roaring blaze. Panic spreading like, well, wildfire as everyone scrambles for the fire grenades.

_Trust, trust in his luck._

You choose, you wind back, and you throw. Peering through the curtains and hoping to catch a glimpse of green splattered with red. You tell yourself he sees you. Tell yourself that your eyes lock, that he doesn’t die without someone there.

(The flames are too tall. The curtain’s sealed tight.

He breathes in the poison and dies alone).

The sprinklers turn on with a drizzling hiss. Flames stamped out beneath the stream as you venture into the dark. Whipping back the curtain and crying out in not-so-falsified surprise. His body is in worse shape that you remember. Spear buried in his gut up to the hilt, blood soaking through his shirt to the point it’s almost see through. Eyes wide and haunted with something that almost looks like regret.

Investigate, cry, mislead. Waltz into the trial room with confidence, acceptance. More than willing to die for your—His. They were always his—ideals. Convincing everyone it was simply suicide. Over the top, insane, Komaeda-style suicide.

Then things go south.

Human error. _Your_ error. A lipgloss stain on his forehead that’s traced back to you. A bloody footprint that wasn’t washed away by the sprinklers. Fingers turn from the dead to you. Hands over the voting button as your mouth waters with anticipation. With victory.

Then the poison comes to light. Then the motive comes to light. Then Nanami comes forward as the traitor, the killer. Waving goodbye along with Monomi as you scream in protest. Plans in shambles at your feet. Failure haunting you as the realization of _oh my god what have I done_ begins to fade in.

_No! It was me! I killed Komaeda! Why won’t you listen!? It was me, not her. She needs to live she’s the only one who deserves to live you can’t do this you can’t you can’t you can’t—_

She’s gone. Crushed. The only innocent destroyed as despair is left behind. As _you_ are left behind. Alone. Without Komaeda. Cut loose for the final time. A puppet limp on the stage, under the spotlight and no longer able to dance.

You collapse. Legs giving out beneath you as you clutch at the edge of your stand. Chest wracked with sobs as you finally _break._ Bared to the world as the disgusting fake you are. Looks of pity spearing you through as they fail to understand _they don’t understand._

_They were manipulated they didn’t know—_

_They’d never do that what did Komaeda do to them—_

_They’ve gone mad, just like…_

Familiar, crazed laughter echoes throughout the room. But this time it falls from _your_ lips. It’s _your_ ragged breaths, _your_ hiccuping sobs, _your_ wheezing giggles as you slam your head against the wooden edge of the table. Again and again and again with the distant, flickering hope that you’ll die. 

(Despair. This is what despair feels like).

You’re barely aware of what happens next. Your classmates shouting as you’re gathered in someone’s arms. Thrashing and screaming as you’re dragged out of the trial room like a rabid animal. There’s deliberations, debates. Hushed words as you’re talked about like you’re not even there (are you there? You don’t feel like it. You feel far, far away. Standing in a classroom as your fingers wrap around a wayward soda can. Cold fingers brushing against yours in a whisper of movement). Chains wind around your wrists. Led into the dining hall as deja vu sends you into another screaming fit. Hurriedly tied to a pole as you’re left to your thoughts. The door slamming shut behind them because _that’s the last thing he heard from you._

**ERROR**

You kick and scream with a burning desperation that flares and ebbs. Sobbing and shaking only to quiet down to silent whimpers. Tears streaming down your face and mixing with the blood from your forehead.

_“I’m not...not strong enough to stay away.”_

**ERROR**

_“I’m honored…for you to even look at me, nothing more than dirt beneath your shoe...it’s a gift I can never repay.”_

The world GLITCHES and TEARS APART at the edges. If you turn your head too fast you can catch glimpses of binary code. Ones and zeroes that hurt to look at. That burn your retinas as if you’ve stared straight into the sun.

_“I swear on my life, I will.”_

**ERROR**

_“But...if you could try not to forget me…”_

Your head POUNDS as memories play on a film in your head. Reels tangled and flickering as you writhe in agony. Reality folding in on itself as you curl up on the floor. Begging for help, for relief, for _him._

“ _I did it for you. No one else should touch you. No one else can mar your perfection, tarnish your hope. That privilege...the privilege of dirtying your body...that privilege belongs to me.”_

KOMAEDA COME BACK.

_“I love you.”_

NAGITO, PLEASE.

It hurts to scream but you do it anyway. Writhing on the floor like a salted slug as the chain tangles with your movements. Winding tighter and tighter until the links catch around your neck. Imagining the biting chill of metal as _his_ fingers and _his_ touch. The whisper of the chain on hardwood floor as _his_ voice. Quiet words of comfort as you close your eyes, smile, and pull and pull and pull and pull and—

  
  
  
  
  


_A body has been discovered._

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Andd that’s the fucked up end of a fucked up story. Wow, what a ride.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who’s stuck around, and everyone who mistakenly clicked on this bloody shit show! I may make a sequel or spin off at some point, but probably not.
> 
> Also, I have some Hajime/Izuru x reader fics in mind if you want to see those in the future. As well as a couple more nagito x reader ideas bc hyperfixation go brrr. And if you have ideas or requests, I’d love to hear them (though I don’t know if I’ll ever get to them, sorry! :( 
> 
> Once again, thanks for reading! And if you have any questions please ask because I can’t help but feel this whole thing was super vague and confusing lmao


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